


for want of warmth

by treztine



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), F/F, POV Second Person, Sexual Content, emotions with a side of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treztine/pseuds/treztine
Summary: You feel as though the two of you have circled one another for a time. Cautious and unsure, like wolves that’ve strayed from separate packs. But there's truce here at this shared hearth—that much you know—and you've warmed to one another in the past moons, as the flames warm you both now.(ambiguous f!wol/ysayle told in second person. some tension, a lot of setup, and a bit of vague flowery sex)
Relationships: Ysayle Dangoulain/Warrior of Light
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61





	for want of warmth

You're not prepared for the chill of the Churning Mists.

It catches you off guard: how thin the air is and how hard it is to breathe at times, like there's a shard of glass that sits in your lungs and needles to fine points with each shallow inhale. It seeps past every joint of your armor and each thread of your clothing, leaving you to wonder how the moogles and the dragons could possibly call such a place home, even with plush fur and thick scales to shield them from it. You feel so close to the heavens there, as if the sky is pressing down on you—heavy, cold, and crushing.

It hardly seems like somewhere you and your companions can or should traverse, but the road to hold council with a great wyrm is wont to be paved with such obstacles.

Estinien and Alphinaud retired to their tent long ago. The prospect of rest is enticing, as is the thought of huddling into your warm bedroll, but the air buzzes with the static of umbral aether and it fills you with a restlessness that would make it difficult to sleep. So you don't, and choose instead to sit by the fire in the quiet presence of your remaining companion.

She hasn't said a word in what feels like close to a bell. Neither have you, leaving you both to sit in a wordless stalemate that feels fragile as frost. You're glad for the fire as it fills the void with soft crackles that echo into the stillness of the night.

You wonder if she knows how much she still intimidates you. You hope not, because it seems silly and unfair. You've traversed endless malms and have slain countless foes and now harbor the same goals. She's done more than enough to earn your trust. But there's something else there, something that simmers beneath your skin and tugs at your blood every time you glance her way.

The firelight casts her in a warm glow, settling along the bridge of her nose and the sharp lines of her cheeks, painting the silver-white of her hair, touching the tips of her elegant ears. She watches the fire as you watch her, a picture of ethereal serenity that makes that something within you ache just like each breath of the icy air does. You distract yourself from it by feeding the flames.

You hear the fire crackle hungrily as it devours the fresh log. As you sit back down, you remember the wooden bowl still balanced on your palm that feels smooth beneath your frigid fingertips. The hot stew that filled it is long gone, and this emptiness sends your thoughts back to the cold again.

_Hear. Feel. Think._

The tenets of your Mother and the first words spoken to you by Ysayle. It's common ground, an understanding that runs deeper than anything even your closest kith and kin could ever hope to achieve. And it's so strangely intimate, this bond—the gifts granted by the Goddess who fuels the very star you trod on. That particular thought strikes you when you look up from your empty bowl to catch Ysayle’s gaze through the flames.

Your mouth goes dry and you're glad that _speak_ is not a part of Her chant. You keep to your usual silence and lower your eyes again.

You feel as though the two of you have circled one another for a time. Cautious and unsure, like wolves that’ve strayed from separate packs. But there’s truce here at this shared hearth—that much you know—and you’ve warmed to one another in the past moons, as the flames warm you both now. That silent reminder makes your tensed muscles unfurl a hair.

“You are not fond of the cold,” Ysayle says.

The observation rolls off of her tongue like an icy droplet of water. You're unsure how to read her tone, but a sudden jolt passes through you as you wonder if her Blessing somehow allows her a glimpse into your mind.

You look up, finally, shrinking back from both the cold and the keen, curious sharpness of her pale eyes and realize just how obvious your uneasiness must be. You're shivering like a freshly plucked chocobo, for one.

“What gave it away?”

Sarcasm is always a safe choice, you decide. Your teeth clack together as you choke back a laugh, baring them in an unintended grin. You hope Ysayle doesn't take this for a threat. She doesn't seem to.

She simply smiles with amusement that pulls up the corner of her mouth. Her lips shimmer like snowmelt, her eyes alight with the flames that separate you. The dryness of your mouth persists.

“It's not that I don't like it,” you add carefully, worried that you've offended her somehow. “I'm just not used to it.”

Ysayle considers this for a moment and gives a slight nod to your credit. You feel a bit less like a fool thanks to the gesture. “The Churning Mists are a far harsher clime than anywhere in Eorzea,” she says in agreement. “Even Coerthas, I would wager.”

The puffs of her breath are frozen as she speaks, rising up with each word like gossamer cotton bolls. You marvel over how at ease she appears to be while you continue to shiver without end.

“You seem at home here.”

The thought spills out. Ysayle shifts in place, perhaps out of discomfort. For a moment, you regret speaking.

“I have been at home in the cold for quite some time now,” she says quietly, as if she’s just shared a secret with you.

Iceheart, Shiva—borrowed names of roles she's had to freeze herself to fill. You can only wince at the thought of the lengths she's gone to chase her truth. When she looks at you again, her eyes hold enough intensity to smoulder through ice.

“It is not so unbearable,” Ysayle says with quiet reassurance, “once you find a way to keep yourself warm.”

There's something else there, darker and sharper and almost inviting, something that makes the breath in your throat freeze and catch. It buzzes between you—that _something_ —much like the ambient aether that fills the air. Before you can even begin to puzzle over her meaning, Ysayle stands.

“It is well past time to rest,” she says. “We have had a long day and there is an even longer way to go in the morrow. Do try to sleep soon.” She sounds a bit concerned for you and your well-being, but the depth of her lingering glance implies more. She disappears into your shared tent as quickly as she stood, leaving you slack-jawed before the fire.

You stare into the flames until you feel blind, mind blank but heart racing. You're biding your time, you realize. For what reason, you can't quite say. Despite having shared accommodations with Ysayle for the entirety of your journey, the thought of sleeping within a fulm of her fills you with a peculiar sort of anticipation now.

By the time you stand, the hearth has all but burnt out into flickering, ruddy embers. Much like the dying fire, your joints creak and crackle in protest. You push yourself through the stiffness to approach the tent.

You stop to shed the majority of your clothing before you enter, as to not wake your companion with your fumbling. Leathers and bits of metal are placed in a pile until you're left in only the softness of your underclothes. The vulnerability sets you on edge just a bit, but you swallow it down and duck beneath the flap, if only to hide from the cold that nips greedily at newly bared fresh.

A small, lumescent crystal that hangs by a string from the roof of the tent sways from your intrusion. The makeshift lantern lights the inside just enough to chase away the darkest of the night’s shadows and casts a smattering of dappled light across the bedrolls and furs and Ysayle’s face, like faint blue stars or flecks of fresh snow.

She's asleep, her back to you as you settle into the softness of your bed. For a time, you watch the gentle rise and fall of her silhouette as she breathes from the corner of your vision. Her presence comforts you and you feel foolish suddenly for your apprehension of that strange, buzzing _something_ you still can’t quite place.

But once you press your eyes closed, you know it's done in vain. Sleep doesn't come to claim you, even with the exhaustion that weighs heavily on each muscle and bone. Too much sings in your mind to allow respite. Nidhogg’s shuddering, furious verse—you can hear its phantom melody in your ears, haunting you for what feels like bells. You wonder if she can sense it too.

After a time, Ysayle stirs. You peak an eye open just as she turns in her sleep to face you. The quiet composure you’ve built up shatters and the sight makes your heart begin its thundering anew.

Her pale lashes press against equally pale skin and her breaths are easy, shallow, slipping peacefully past parted lips. A sound sleep. She looks at home there, bathed in the soft, blue-tinged light of the crystal that shimmers over everything in the tiny, shared space. You feel like you’re inside one of the pretty glass globes filled with snow that you often see line the shelves of shops during Starlight.

Be it delirium caused by exhaustion or a childlike sense of wonder—some nameless, foolish urge guides your hand to Ysayle’s face.

You trace the outline of her jaw with fingertips that flutter in time with the frantic beating of your heart and brush stray strands of hair from her cheek, pausing there to cup it in your calloused palm. She's beautiful, you decide. As if you hadn't already decided that the moment you first saw her, outlined in a swirling blizzard when you emerged from the icy labyrinth of Snowcloak. Stoic and strong, a saint reborn, clad in mortal flesh and Blessed just as you are.

To your horror, in the midst of your admiration of her, she wakes.

“I—”

Your hand recoils. A thousand possible excuses fly to your lips, but they all feel too flimsy to say out loud. So you say nothing instead and watch, frozen with shock, as she watches you in turn. Just like before, though there’s no fire to separate you now—or to protect you, perhaps. Eventually, she pushes herself up onto her elbows.

Ysayle’s eyes could bore a hole through flesh. They're so pale, almost unnaturally so, and her usual mask doesn't slip even as she leans over you. You're unsure if she's surprised or angry or disgusted, and wait in breathless silence to see what she might do to punish your indiscretion.

Her hand reaches for yours. She pulls it up and guides it back to her cheek, leaning into the touch. Seeing the look of confusion you flash up at her, she softens her gaze.

“What would you have of me, Warrior?”

The scant glow of the crystal haloes her head in a crown of light as she shifts closer and leans down. A curtain of silvery hair falls over her shoulders to surround you in a wall of silken ice, and you feel strangely safe there with the face of your former foe hovering mere ilms above yours.

You find a name for the urge that guides your hand yet again: it's madness, you think. Your thumb strokes her cheek and drifts downward to ghost across her lips, barely touching, afraid you might shatter this dream. You mull over her question for a moment and begin to shiver again. That time, it's less from the cold.

“Keep me warm,” you murmur your reply, eyes flitting from her half-lidded gaze to her lips. It feels more like begging than an answer, but you hardly care at that point. Neither does she, judging by how her mouth quirks into a smile beneath your fingertips.

“That,” she whispers, “I can do.”

It really does feel like madness that makes its way down your arms and your legs, leaving you heavy and numb. But Ysayle kisses each fear away, gentle at first, so surprisingly warm—enough to thaw your frozen heart and breath life back into you anew. The brewing tension that'd grown between you snaps and crumbles away like delicate ice on a pond, giving way to honest, wordless action.

The first kisses are cautious. You can taste mint—soothing and sweet—from the balm always painted on her lips. The one that shimmers like frost, the one that you've wanted to kiss away for the better part of a moon. So you finally do, parting your own lips to invite her closer and taste more of what she might offer you in return.

The hand you keep on her cheek climbs upward to trace the outline of her ear. A gasp slips into your mouth from hers and so you do it again, marveling over each little sound she makes. She nips at your bottom lip in a silent retaliation that makes your breath hitch and she pulls back just an ilm to look at you. It proves to be too far, because you let out a soft whine of protest despite yourself. You pull her back, closer than before, and relish in the sound of her chuckle as it reverberates through your entire being.

 _Iceheart_. It really is a cruel title, you decide. You think of how she came with you to face Ravana without second thought. How she cooked you stews and roasts from the meat you caught in the wilds of Dravania. How charmed she was by the moogles of Moghome. There’s only warmth there in the firm yet gentle hands that flit across your body to chase the chill away. She's mortal in the end, just as you are. And you really should've known better, given the twin pedestals the Echo has forced you both onto.

You're already halfway out of your bedroll before you kick the rest off. There are no more boundaries now, no more armor. Not on your body nor in your mind. Ysayle pulls at the bottom of your undershirt and slips beneath it as if to remind you of this vulnerability, to show you that she can be trusted with it.

She touches bare skin that pebbles to gooseflesh beneath her fingers and her hand grazes your side, creeps up your stomach, slides across your breast. Fingers circle, caress, pinch. You push yourself closer into her grasp, groaning into her mouth from the sensation of fabric hitching up so that she may reach every part of you that aches for her touch.

Her lips are on your neck, dance across your throat, move down your collarbones, and her mouth lands where her hands had been only moments before. She traces swirling, senseless patterns among gentle drags of her teeth until you’re left breathless and panting, wanting for more.

You're lost in it, in her. Your hands paw at Ysayle’s shoulders, digging into the soft cotton of her undershirt, unsure how else to anchor yourself. Every tug is rewarded with another touch that sends sparks up your spine and heat down through your insides, coiling within you like a vine. She chases this warmth with fingers that drift steadily onward, determined and deft. Her hand slides up to your knee and then creeps back down again along the inside of your thigh, so slow and tempting. Your toes curl in anticipation. When she reaches the juncture between your legs, a sharp keen hits the back of your throat.

For a moment, time comes to a halt. The desire that guides you both sputters like a small flame and the dreamy veil of the tent is pulled back—just an ilm, just enough to let rationally come through. Ysayle pauses. She raises her head to look at you.

“You want this?” she whispers, sounding breathless.

It's almost charming, you think, to see her brows drawn together in worry, as if your being half-undressed and eager beneath her is not an answer enough. Your hand finds her neck and your thumb traces her jaw, hoping to brush her uncertainty away. You want—gods, how badly you _want_ —but can think of no better way to show her.

“ _Please_ ,” you whisper your reply.

You've ever been a woman of action rather than speech, but this is enough to urge Ysayle onward. Her worry dissipates and she bows her head, her forehead practically brushing against yours as her hand finds the hem of your smallclothes. You can do little else aside from stifle a gasp when she slips beneath that final barrier of thin cloth.

Your arms curl around her neck and tangle into the softness of her hair that falls around you once more. She kisses your lips, your cheek, the side of your neck. You're slick beneath her touch, breathing in time with every deft strum of her fingers. She winds you up and strikes every chord—a delicate harmony you hear yourself practically singing along with.

You try to subdue your voice, not wanting to draw the attention of your companions from across the camp. Ysayle comes to your aid and drinks up each sound you make until your breaths mingle and become indiscernible and your hearts beat in rapid succession. She traces outlines around your deepest aches, guided by this mad rhythm. It's almost too fast, yet not quite enough to sate you.

Perhaps she senses this, because her finger slips inwards, curling, brushing against some place within you that almost makes you break. She adds another, then both retreat, and your hips follow her hand to find the fullness again. You meet her at each thrust, chasing the want within you that bristles sharply, needing more. Her thumb slides up, and this pushes you closer to the edge with each careful stroke against nerve.

You cling to her—to Iceheart, to Shiva, to Hydaelyn’s chosen daughter. But in those moments she is no heretic, no saint, no enemy of yours. There is common ground between you now that goes far beyond a Blessing. It is of flesh and of desire and of something else, that infuriating, intangible, maddening something that stirs within your heart.

“Ysayle—”

You like how her name sounds when she has you at her mercy, when you say it out loud. And you like how the soft groan she presses back against you in response tastes on your lips. Your release comes and you say it again and again until the flecks of snow you see on the backs of your eyelids lull you into breathless silence.

Ysayle’s fingers withdraw but she stays near, kissing warmth into you as you settle back down and sink into the furs of your shared bed. Your eyes flutter open after her lips pull away and you're greeted by the sight of her pale, inquisitive gaze that blinks down at you from above

She looks almost shy. You smile at this and reach up to touch her cheek again. Unsure what to say, you speak with your hands, letting your fingers slide down her arm and her side and stop at her waist. You tug her nearer, keen to show her your thanks. In truth, you want to hear her cry out your name as you did hers.

You're surprised and a bit disappointed that she pulls away instead.

“Sleep,” she orders. It's stern, but she smiles when she sees your brows draw together in confusion. “You can repay me another time,” she adds with a gentle squeeze on your hip before she pulls your bedroll back up around you.

You blink up at the roof of the tent as you sort out your underclothes. Everything slows and settles around you, like a heavy blanket of fresh snow. It's too much to sift through right now, but a realization strikes you through the lazy blur of your thoughts.

“Is that an invitation to do this again?” you ask, uncertain, and feel sheepish suddenly for your eagerness.

“I should hope that was obvious,” Ysayle replies, sounding droll, though uncertainty finds her as well. "If you would have me again, that is."

She doesn't have to wait long before you begin to nod your head in agreement, and she laughs. You like the sound of that too, you realize. Like a rushing stream, clear and calm and rich with sincerity. You hope you can hear it more often on the journey still to come.

Finally, you do as you're told and Ysayle settles in beside you—pressed against your side, you realize. Your heart flutters a bit again when your head tucks beneath her chin and her arm drapes across you, protective and warm. There's no place for the cold here: in your tent or between you. There is much comfort in the mutual, wordless understanding that has bloomed.

Sleep comes far easier this time.

**Author's Note:**

> i've been wanting to write ysayle/wol for a while but wasn't sure how to tackle it, so i just went completely out of my comfort zone. i've never written a fic in second person or present tense before so that sure was a journey lol. but ysayle needs more love so she's worth it. hope you enjoyed. let me know if you did! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


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